ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre.
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